


Revenant

by SugarWraith



Category: Guild Wars, Guild Wars 2
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Time Travel, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6578350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarWraith/pseuds/SugarWraith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Foefire Cleansing Ritual fails, Rytlock is transported into The Mists. Disoriented and confused, he begins the search for Sohothin, his fiery sword needed to cleanse Ascalon from King Adelbern's curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rytlock entered the crypt wielding the fragmented crown, intending to complete the ritual that would free Ascalon from the Foefire's curse.

The hilt in his palm shuddered as the spirit flowed through it. Rytlock curled his fingers and felt the hot metal bite into his paw.

The floor of the crypt was vibrating under his feet. Rox was somewhere behind him, and she called out- 

The edge in her voice almost made Rytlock turn around, but he held fast. He furrowed his forehead and pushed his ears back against his horns. Head down and shoulders set, he stepped out onto the shaking ground.

The sound of rending air and earth grew stronger until it was reverberating against the walls. Then the rock appeared to split underneath him. Bright blue light spewed out from a rend in the air and spread across the ground. Rytlock widened his eyes and stumbled; the floor roiled and he braced himself against a fall. A thick, cracking sound assaulted their ears, and Rytlock saw Rox drop to her knees and grasp at her head.

Fighting against the turmoil, Rytlock raised Sohothin above his head. The frozen air danced and shimmered around the blade. Then it sparked, sending searing heat across the Charr’s eyes and mouth.

"Ascalon, I free you from this curse!"

Rytlock drove the fiery blade into the ground, forcing it into the roiling blue light. The blade hummed and shook, shaking enough to move the Charr's arm as he fought to hold the sword steady. The angry cyan glow pulsed and contracted, pulling the sword away from him. Sohothin shone like a beacon and Rytlock withdrew, raising a paw over his eyes.

The crypt was a cacophony of light and sound. Rytlock felt the echoes thrum between his ribs and shake beneath his heart. He could feel a pull deep under his lungs, causing him to shudder. There came a sour taste in his mouth. Sohothin began to spin; the dragon head at its hilt glistened as it rolled and spewed orange flame.

The cracks in the crypt widened into a yawning maw. Blue smoke curled and writhed up over the blade. Rytlock’s eyes darted over the room, and over his sword. He growled and lurched forwards towards the blade. His mouth was open to shout, his fangs flashing in the light.

Sohothin glimmered, and plunged into the seething portal.

Rytlock felt a swooping sensation in his stomach. He stood frozen, locked in place, his eyes wide and his outstretched paw clutching air. The blue light bubbled and began to withdraw, folding into itself. Rytlock began to hear the shouts of his companions echoing against the stone walls. Rox was calling him back and the Imperator was roaring, his snout pulled back into a wrinkled snarl.

"I have to go after it, without it we’ll never end this war!"

Rytlock sucked air through his teeth and squared his shoulders. His chest expanded, and the heavy thrum of his heart filled his head. With a leap, he bound forwards and threw himself into the blue light. 

The air felt compressed and thick. Rytlock's ears filled with the sound of spirits screaming. Their voices thrust into his head and he called out in pain, clutching at his ears and pulling at his horns. The light sent streaks of lightning across his retina, so he screwed them shut. The Tribune drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his tail around his legs. He tucked his head to his chest and twisted his face into a roar.

The blinding portal behind him faded and shut. The spirits’ voices rose to a pinnacle of sound full of anguish and terror. Then there was silence. Rytlock fell into a fit of unconsciousness.


	2. Awaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rytlock finds himself out in the open. The crypt and Sohothin are gone. Rox and the Imperator are nowhere near, and the landscape seems... strange, but familiar.

Rytlock unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He ran it over the backs of his teeth, and tasted the sticky tang of his blood. The Charr lay on his stomach, face pressed against the warm earth, with his large paws either side of his head. He pulled his fingers close to his palms, and felt the earth shift and crumble under his claws. Rytlock flicked an ear, wrinkled his snout, and growled deep in his chest.

A sharp jab at his nose made him jolt awake. He recoiled, thrashing his tail and snarling. Clouds of dust sprouted around his arms as he drew them up to cover his face.

There were some muffled words, scuffles as someone moved away. Moving slowly, and carefully, Rytlock pushed himself up onto his feet and looked around. Two children stood a few feet away, staring at him with wide eyes. One of them grasped a long stick in one hand.

"What was that for?" Rytlock spat. He made to take a step towards the pair, but stopped. His vision blurred, and he swayed on his feet. He scrunched his eyes up tight and sucked air through his teeth.

After a moment, he was steady. The girl was frowning at him, her bright blonde hair glistening in the sun. The way her nose crinkled irked the Charr.

"Quit gawping," he growled.

They flinched, and the younger one covered his mouth with a small, pale hand. He hunched closer to his sister, peeking out from behind her shoulder.

"Scram, kids." Rytlock’s tail swished from side to side. He rubbed at his eyes with a paw, and moved his shoulders under his armour. The plate rasped against itself, and Rytlock felt the sweat between his shoulder blades. "My head hurts," he muttered, "go pester someone else."

Rytlock scanned the immediate area. Trees hemmed him in on all sides, with their spindly branches stuck into the crisp blue sky. The air smelled sweet, like fungi and wet leaves. Rytlock breathed deep. His head had stopped swimming, but his senses felt dull. He blinked hard.

A sharp pain exploded at his temple. Rytlock recoiled with a yelp, his ears drawn back. The girl stood with squared off shoulders, her jaw jutting out. Grasped in her hand was another stone, and she stood poised to throw.

"You little git," he hissed, stepping towards her and drawing himself up tall. He struck a foreboding figure in full armour, his mane bushed up and his lip curling back over his teeth.

"You best have other plans for that rock, girl, or I’ll see that it finds a home between your eyes."

The girl’s expression faltered. Her eyes darted to her brother, who stood with his arms wrapped around his chest.

"Oh yeah?" she challenged. "What’s a filthy Charr like you doing here anyway?" Her thin voice got louder: "You should run before I tell-"

"What are you talking about?" Rytlock snapped. He furrowed his forehead.

"Get out, you filthy Charr!" she yelled, and cast the stone at Rytlock’s face. It missed, and struck his shoulder, but Rytlock lunged forward to grasp the child’s arm. He brought his face in close to hers and stared her straight in the eyes. Her pupils widened and she grit her teeth. Her brother darted away across the grass, garbling and screeching.

"What did you say, little mouse?" Rytlock’s voice was a low reverberation in his chest.

She barely moved her head from side to side, her pale, pale skin and lips betraying her fear.

Rytlock flicked his ears and let go. She skittered away and fell to her knees. She heaved a few sobs, tears beginning to stream across her face, and then scrambled to her feet. She staggered away after her brother.

Rytlock watched them disappear amongst the trees. The ground tilted under his feet, and he brought his paws up to shield his eyes. The sun hitting his head felt like it was pouring into his skull.


	3. Tinderspire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rytlock attempts to find somewhere familiar. He stumbles upon a camp of Charr, but something about them makes him suspicious. It doesn't help that he is still reeling from the effects of the portal, or that the Charr don't seem to recognise Rytlock at all.

Rytlock focused on keeping his steps even. The grass grew thick under his feet and covered the fields in a swathe of pale green. With each step, the rich smell of wet dirt crawled up his nose. Rytlock’s mouth burned. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, it caught the shimmering water of the lake to his far right. He hung his aching head and trudged onwards. 

The skin under his arm and along his side stung. His armour rubbed against Rytlock’s fur and chafed every time he moved. Rytlock dragged a claw across the metal. A large dent had been driven into the plate over his ribcage and the cats head on his pauldron was warped and mangled. He massaged his shoulder with his hand, and dug his knuckles into the muscle. There was a knot of pain budding under his fingers. He did not remember hitting the ground with enough force to buckle steel. Rytlock snuffed through his nose and growled.

When he reached the banks of the lake, the ground turned silty. Rytlock paused a while, letting his feet sink into the soft earth. There was a cool breeze playing over the water; it pushed at Rytlock's fringe and whispered against his drooping ears. Rytlock scooped some water over his face, and licked his fingers. The water tasted rich and earthy. He cupped his paws and drank until he felt the pain in his temple abate. 

Now the sun was gone, and the air was cold.

Rytlock stood tall and stretched, feeling the muscles in his legs twitch. He felt a little numb. The Charr ground his teeth and cracked his fingers. He cast around in the gloom for any landmarks, but all around were trees and low hills. Rytlock dragged his tongue over his lips, picked a direction, and started to walk. 

After an hour or so, there came the sound of deep voices ahead. They spoke with the familiar burr and hum of Charr, and Rytlock’s ears flicked up. He made out a thick orange glow through the trees, and started towards it.

The Charr were clustered in a shallow dell. Workers had thinned out the trees; thick stumps jutted from the pale grass. Shredded leaves and scattered chips of yellow wood littered the trampled ground. Rytlock breathed deep and felt the sting of shattered wood and sap against the back of his throat. He could just make out stripped trunks along the far side of the clearing, ready to be shorn into planks. Several fabric tents loomed in the centre and cast long shadows away from the light. 

Rytlock set his shoulders and started to walk into the camp. He lengthened his stride, and headed straight for the centre.

As he passed the fires, he studied the Charr. Some armour bore the mark of the Iron Legion, the cog obscured on several chests with grime. They huddled in small groups with their shoulders hunched, and cupped steaming bowls of food in their paws. Rytlock felt his stomach clench and rumble.

He passed a group sitting around a fire. The pop and crackle of the wood punctuated their conversation. Someone stood to leave, licking the last of his meal from his snout and dragging the back of his paw over his lips. Rytlock reached out to snag his shoulder.

"Easy," the Charr said, shrugging off Rytlock’s paw. As he turned, his eyes passed over Rytlock’s armour. The Charr’s ears tilted back, and his eyes widened.

"Hey cub," Rytlock muttered, "Who’s in charge here?"

The tawny furred Charr sucked at his lip. A single fang peeked out.

"Well, I know where you can find my Legionnaire," he replied. He scratched behind his ear and shifted his gaze to the dirt at his feet.

Rytlock nodded: "That’ll do, for a start."

"Legionnaire Tinderspire is usually in that tent there," he pointed.

Rytlock thanked him.

The Charr wrinkled his nose. He rolled his shoulder, and started to walk off. As he left, Rytlock saw him cast a cursory glance over his shoulder. Rytlock felt the mane on his neck prickle. He dragged his paw over his fur, and crushed it against his spine. 

A group of Charr were making their way through the camp. As they passed, one Charr knocked into Rytlock and shoved his shoulder back.

"Watch it," Rytlock growled. Hot pain shot through his shoulder and he clenched his teeth. He swallowed the yelp before it escaped his mouth, but his tail whipped from side to side.

The Charr snuffed, and shook his head. "These new soldiers get smaller by the day."

Rytlock's mane bushed up. He turned, and followed the Charr. 

"What's your name, soldier?" he asked. His voice was clipped, and controlled. 

"What’s it to you?" The Charr rolled his eyes and sauntered off. 

Rytlock jammed his paw over his shoulder and hissed. Little grey specks started to swim against his vision. He slouched lower and started to cross the last few metres to the tent. As he extended a paw to pull back the canvas, a voice spoke out. 

"Hold it." A Charr stepped away from the shadow in front of the tent and walked up to Rytlock with slow, measured steps. Rytlock felt his tail twitch. 

"Scouts report in over there," the Charr said, extending a claw. 

Rytlock flicked his ears. He didn’t turn to look. "I’m not a scout," he spat. "I’m looking for The Legionnaire."

The Charr narrowed his eyes. "And you are?"

Rytlock felt a twinge in his stomach. He moved close to the Charr and pushed his face in close to his snout. 

"Brimstone," he said, scouring the Charr’s face. This Charr was broad, with thick, dark fur and a mottled complexion. His orange eyes took in Rytlock’s face in turn. 

After several seconds, the Charr remained impassive, and Rytlock frowned. "And you?" he snapped. "Why are you wasting my time?"

He stood a head taller than Rytlock. His shoulders and forearms were criss-crossed with scars. Thick ivory spikes protruded directly from his shoulders and stretched up towards his ears. His steel-tipped horns were imposing, and framed his wide face.

"You should watch your tone." The Charr murmured. "We don’t take well to strangers." He sucked air through his teeth. "I'm the Legionnaire," he answered. "Cato Tinderspire."

Rytlock turned his head and stared sideways at Tinderspire. "Ok," he began, "I need a report."

Tinderspire grinned. "No way," he smiled, pressing his lips over his teeth, and started to walk. 

Rytlock ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He heard the hum of soldiers around him, but their conversations were deadened and washed out. The sounds of the camp pressed into his ears and settled against his skull like hot treacle. He swallowed hard, but the thrum of his heart crept up into his throat. 

"Legionnaire," Rytlock began, "I…apologise. Listen, I’ve got turned around and I need to…get back to my unit." Rytlock focused on keeping his voice firm. Tinderspire paused. 

"What’s your name again?"

"Brimstone."

Tinderspire mulled for a few moments before blowing a short sharp breath through his nose. "I don’t know you," Tinderspire said.

Rytlock bristled. A muscle in his jaw popped and twitched. 

"I’m…" Rytlock began. Then he changed his mind. "I need to speak to you about your mission."

Tinderspire tipped his palms upwards and shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Follow me to the war room…" He chuckled, and flicked his ears. 

As they walked, Rytlock watched Tinderspire from the corner of his eye. The Charr walked with careful purpose, his large ears twitching as they passed the soldiers by the fires. 

"They’re getting soft," Tinderspire muttered.

Rytlock cleared his throat. They reached a tent and Tinderspire held open the canvas. 

The air inside was thick and hot. Rytlock smelled sour parchment, and ink, and the bitter tang of ale. A couple of Charr stood around a centre table, deep in discussion. Rytlock paused, his eyes pouring over the plethora of maps and diagrams spread out before them. Several large, thick arrows had been traced stretching north to south. 

Tinderspire steered Rytlock towards the back of the tent. 

"How many are in your warband?" Rytlock asked, settling down on a low stool. Tinderspire sat opposite him, his back to the centre of the room.

"Six," he uttered, running his tongue over his teeth. "Small, I know," he tilted his head, "but there are three… larger warbands with us."

Rytlock’s gaze shifted over Tinderspire’s shoulder. The two Charr were talking in frenzied whispers, their fur bristling. 

"Don’t mind them," Tinderspire said, waving a paw to get Rytlock’s attention. "There have been new orders from the North, and we’ve had to… readjust." Rytlock’s ears flicked up. 

"That’s what I need to know." Rytlock thought fast: "I’m from another company out… east. We were attacked and… lost contact with our… contact." He swallowed hard, but met Tinderspire’s stern gaze.

Tinderspire made a noise in the back of his throat. "We don’t hear much about the units to the East," he said.

"Isn’t that the point?" Rytlock challenged. "Only the messengers keep those lines of communication open."

Tinderspire nodded, and raised his brow. He ran his claws through his mane. "So if you’re not a scout, what are you?"

Rytlock’s thoughts raced. "I’m… just a foot soldier," he growled. He felt a sting in his chest. 

"Yes, so what was your company’s directive?" Tinderspire sighed. "Look, you don’t appear all that… focused." 

Rytlock flicked his ears. "Well, the things that attacked us hit us pretty hard." He glared, fixing Tinderspire in a fiery stare.

Tinderspire rubbed his eyes. 

"Alright, let’s start from the beginning. What’s your legion, soldier?"

"Blood Legion," Rytlock said. His chest started to expand, and his shoulders lifted. 

Tinderspire stared. "Right." He said.

Rytlock bristled. "So?"

Tinderspire stood, and walked over to the table. The two Charr stopped their muttering to watch him. 

"We’re here," Tinderspire said. Rytlock followed him to the table. He watched as the Legionnaire pressed his claw against the map. It fell a short distance from the thick, black line marked THE WALL. "The Blood Legion forces are stationed back here…" Tinderspire watched Rytlock’s face as he dragged his paw way up the map to the north. There was a wooden figure stationed there, some sort of pot flanked with four spires. Rytlock frowned. 

"So why are you all the way down here?" Something in Tinderspire’s voice put Rytlock on edge. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Legionnaire," he began.

Tinderspire leant in close. "Brimstone," he started, "What happened to the companies in the north?"

Rytlock felt beads of sweat blossom between his shoulder blades. 

Tinderspire glanced at the other Charr in the tent. 

"Look," he said, laying a broad paw on Rytlock’s shoulder. "I can see there’s some truth to your story. Your plate is… ruined, and you’re obviously confused. Maybe even sick…" 

Rytlock screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the room swam in and out of focus.

Tinderspire beckoned to one of the Charr. 

"Listen," he continued, "Let’s just help you keep a low profile. As far as Scorchmaw is concerned… and he’s the Centurion of this company… you’re just another scout that got turned about by some Ascalonian fire mage. Let’s keep it that way until we figure out what exactly you’re doing here."

Rytlock nodded his head. 

"So let’s get someone to take that armour, and get you someplace to rest," Tinderspire said. “Shadowscorch, his armour…"

The sandy-furred Charr from the table moved forwards and started pulling at Rytlock’s armour. He snaked his claws under the clasps at his shoulders. Rytlock barred his teeth, but the heady air in the tent made his thoughts feel heavy. He dragged his palm over the rent surface of his armour.

"We’ll make sure to get it fixed," Tinderspire assured him. 

Rytlock flicked his ears. "I can still fight," he growled.

Shadowscorch pushed Rytlock’s arm through the twisted metal. "Looks like some beautiful armour," He replied. He lifted the chest guard away from Rytlock's body. “You Blood Legion soldiers always bring the best. When’s that expensive Legion provision going to trickle through to the rest of us?”

Tinderspire flicked his ears and shook his head. He fixed Shadowscorch in a steely gaze. 

"Come to think of it though," Shadowscorch muttered, "This looks even better than what those soldiers get their mits on." He held up the undamaged pauldron and scrutinised the elegant shaping.

Tinderspire hissed through his teeth. "Just get it done," he said. 

Rytlock flexed his arms. Without the weight of the armour his shoulder throbbed with renewed focus. He winced. 

Tinderspire angled his head to the exit, and Shadowscorch left. The canvas fell back behind him with a snap. 

Tinderspire steered Rytlock with a paw around his shoulder. The quiet Charr followed them. They exited the tent walked across the camp towards the nearest fire.

"Just settle over here and rest up," Tinderspire said. Rytlock sank to sit on the ground and rested his head in his hands. 

Shadowscorch returned empty handed.

"Shadowscorch and Steelclaw will keep you company until I get back," Tinderspire added. Rytlock lifted his head and eyed the Charr with narrowed eyes. 

"I don’t need a Primus to watch over me," Rytlock growled. 

Shadowscorch's face split into a wider grin, and his teeth flashed in the light. "Only temporary," he said. 

Tinderspire met Shadowscorch's eyes as he left, and they exchanged a brief nod. Rytlock watched the Legionnaire go with a strange feeling in his gut. 

Rytlock flicked his ears. His head felt heavy, and the burn from the fire felt like a thick blanket on his face. He huddled closer to the flames, shifting to get comfortable. The heat from the flames washed over him, and it felt like it was settling into his bones. Without the weight on his feet, his soles throbbed. To his right, Shadowscorch sat with his feet close to the fire. His soft leather shoes were badly scuffed, and every so often he flexed his toes. Rytlock scanned the Charr’s face. His small eyes glittered, and his tufted ears twisted towards each little sound. They were large, and transfixed Rytlock as they waved about. Rytlock sat in a mild state of hypnosis for several minutes, before the Charr spoke. 

"What’s the last thing you remember?" Shadowscorch asked. 

"Well," Rytlock began, "we pitched camp and were waiting for the order to… advance." Rytlock glanced at the two Charr. Neither one gave any indication that they were phased, so Rytlock pressed on. "The campsite wasn’t ideal, but we were tired and short on supplies. I guess we set up too close to… an enemy stronghold." His story was weak, and Rytlock felt his mouth go dry. He cast about for something to distract the Charr. "Is there anything to eat here?" he growled. 

Steelclaw nodded. "Sure," he said, "I’ll be right back."

Shadowscorch watched him go. "Steelclaw would approve," he joked, "his warband fell afoul of a human encampment only a month ago. Where roughly did you camp?" 

His pleasant demeanour did not phase Rytlock. 

"Listen," he retorted, "I doubt you’d know…"

"I’m on loan from the Flame Legion up North," Shadowscorch said with a smile. "So I know a thing or two about the lay of that land…"

Rytlock felt a chill shoot down his spine. He sat frozen for a second. His red mane bristled and he bared his teeth.

"Easy," Steelclaw said, returning and handing Rytlock a steaming bowl of stew. The smell made Rytlock’s head spin. He took it and began shovelling thick spoonfuls into his mouth.

"Ah," Shadowscorch said. "I see you’re one of the wary." He sighed, and stretched, pressing his paws together. His knuckled snapped and clicked. "Don’t worry," he continued. "Despite what the stories your type likes to spread amongst each other, I’m no frontline fighter. So you won’t have to worry about me throwing you off your stride on the battlefield. Or showing you up!” Shadowscorch grinned.

“No, I’ll just have an extra reason to watch my back.” Rytlock retorted. His fur bristled, and he hung his head, his shoulders rose and his mane bushed up. 

"Whoa there," Steelclaw said, leaning between them. "Easy, Brimstone, Shadowscorch is a good soldier."

Rytlock wrinkled his snout. 

Steelclaw sighed and brought his face in close to Rytlock’s ear. "Give it a rest," he said, "I know the Blood Legion has a good relation with the Shamans in the North, let’s not let all that good will go to waste by scuppering the mission here." 

Rytlock backed down. "Fine," he hissed. But his fur wouldn’t lie flat. 

"So we’re close to the wall?" Rytlock ventured. 

"We’re very close to the wall," Steelclaw said. 

"How are we avoiding any Ascalonian retaliation?"

Steelclaw smiled. "There are units attacking south of the wall that are… taking the brunt of the retaliation," he purred. "Quite an ingenious strategy, if you ask me." 

Rytlock swished his tail. "Yeah I… heard of them. So what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for the Centurion to ready the assault." Shadowscorch interjected. "He’s meeting with Ash-Legion scouts that he sent out a few days back."

Rytlock cleaned a piece of meat from between his fangs. 

"The assault," he mused. Then his stomach dropped. "What year is it?" Rytlock hissed. 

Shadowscorch raised his brow. He leaned in close and spoke in a low voice. "1070, Brimstone," he replied. He was staring into Rytlock’s face. 

Rytlock felt a sharp pain under his heart. He gripped the bowl with the remaining dregs of stew and forced his paws to stay still. His breath hitched. 

"Come, Brimstone," Shadowscorch said. His voice was tinged with worry. "You don't look well."

Rytlock shook his head, baring his teeth. "It’s nothing!" he hissed. "Just… need to… lie down…"

Shadowscorch nodded, and took the bowl. Steelclaw looped his hand under Rytlock's arm and levered him to his feet. He steered him away from the fire, but Rytlock shoved his paw against Steelclaw’s chest. The momentum sent him staggering. 

Rytlock stared at the floor. His eyes widened as his field of view stretched and contracted and spasmed. Steelclaw watched as Rytlock stumbled. He threw his arm against Rytlock's chest but Rytlock was heavy, and kept tilting forwards. Suddenly, Rytlock’s hands relaxed, and his knees buckled. From the corner of his eye he saw Shadowscorch rush towards them.

Then from the outskirts of the camp came the sound of angry, raised voices. The Charr around the fires turned their heads. They were still relaxed, but their ears pricked up. Steelclaw knelt by Rytlock's side and clicked his fingers in front of his face. Rytlock saw his hand move, but there was no sound.

Then there came the barking and howling of dogs.

Several Charr sprang to their feet, their bowls clattering onto the dirt. Shadowscorch and Steelclaw froze, their heads snapping round and their eyes combing the gloom around the camp. Rytlock looked up at the soldiers mulling about. Shadows flitted and danced across the ground as they raced between the tents. 

Rytlock dropped his head retched. His tail fluffed out and he held it stiffly behind him. His shoulders heaved. Steelclaw fretted and skittered around. He laid a paw on Rytlock’s shoulder, and then he was a few paces away, peering out into the gloom. "We need to get you out of sight," he said, his face crinkled into a frown. 

Rytlock batted at Steelclaw's paw, pushing him away. His head started to pound. He grasped at his face, covering his eyes. "What’s going on?" he barked. 

Shadowscorch pressed his ears close to his horns. "I… think it’s…"

The harsh bray of a warhorn cascaded over the camp. Steelclaw laid a paw over his mouth. "Can't be…" he hissed. 

Shadowscorch growled. "What idiot just gave away our position?"

Rytlock pushed himself onto his feet, and stood with his head hung low. He took an unsteady step forwards, and drew in a deep breath. "Another attack?" he said. 

"Let’s go!" Shadowscorch growled, latching onto Rytlock's shoulder. They picked their way between the tents and made for the edge of the camp. Rytlock’s temples thrummed, and every so often the sounds of the camp faded out into clouds of white noise. 

They lead Rytlock into the shadow behind a pile of lumber. Shadowscorch grasped Steelclaw by his tunic and conferred in urgent tones. "Get his armour out of sight; tell Tinderspire I’ve got him in with the Ash Legion scout."

Steelclaw nodded, and vanished into the throng of hurrying Charr. 

Rytlock leant against the lumber and breathed deep. The sweet scent of bruised wood filled his nose. 


	4. Shadowscorch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without his armour or weapon, Rytlock is forced to stick close to Shadowscorch during the attack.

Rytlock and Shadowscorch watched as Tinderspire strode into the centre of the camp. He raised a paw, and the soldiers clustered around him. With his back to the fire, and his mane bushed out, the light made his fur glow gold.  


“What is that stench?” Tinderspire bellowed. His voice poured out over the camp, and into the gloom. Rytlock heard the scuffle and snap of steps over leaf-litter. They sounded light, small, and yet here and there were the clink and clatter of metal on metal.  


“Humans?” Rytlock murmured.  


Shadowscorch knocked his elbow into Rytlock’s side. “How many do you think?”  


Rytlock glanced at the Charr. His ears were flat against his head, and his eyes were darting over the surrounding soldiers. His nose twitched and sucked at the air. Rytlock lowered his voice, and spoke gently.  


“I can’t tell.”  


Shadowscorch whipped his head around to scan the trees behind them. “Gods curse these underhanded mice.” Shadowscorch spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his paw.  


“Why the worry?” Rytlock asked.  


Shadowscorch stared at Rytlock. The whites of his eyes glistened in the firelight.  


Tinderspire strode away from the fire, raising what looked like a rifle to his shoulder. “You’re no military unit,” he called out, “I can pick out each of you far too easily.’’  


The Legionnaire pulled the trigger, and a spit of fire shot from the weapon and flew between the trees. It struck the leaves and blossomed into a plume of fire. Spires of light sprung up against the trees. Rytlock watched as figures scattered away from the light.  


From the dark, a thin voice piped up: “You’re not welcome here,” it said.  


Tinderspire cackled. “That means nothing coming from you, human,” he barked. “You have never been welcome here.”  


Tinderspire sent two more strikes of flame into the trees. One struck at the feet of a man, and threw his face into sharp relief. His arm was raised across his chest, and he grasped a short sword in his hand. His torso was wrapped in a stiff leather coat, but he had no other armour. In a moment, he had moved out of the light.  


“Your soldier attacked my children!” a voice sprung up, this time from behind Rytlock. He twisted to scour the edge of camp. Her voice was louder than the others’. Rytlock spied a shadowy blot moving towards the back of the nearest tent. He nudged Shadowscorch. “Two more behind us.”  


Shadowscorch contorted his face, shutting his eyes. He rubbed a paw along his snout and sighed.  


Rytlock blinked hard, and ground his paw into his temple. “Shouldn’t we get out of sight?” he ventured.  


Shadowscorch nodded. “You’re in no position to fight,” he said.  


Rytlock heard a screech, and pained yelps coming from the Charr in the centre of the camp. He turned to see someone clutching at their shoulder and writhing in pain. The humans had loosed flaming arrows into the throng of soldiers. The arrow tips were thick with pitch. They didn’t fly accurately, or far, but one had struck a Charr and glanced off his fur.  


“Gods,” Shadowscorch hissed. “Now that’s started them off.” He pulled Rytlock along behind him and darted for a tent.  


Tinderspire had arranged a line of Charr to fire into the trees. Soon, the camp was bathed in light from burning leaves. Shadowscorch grasped Rytlock's shoulder and steered him away from the woodpiles and back amongst the soldiers.  


As they approached a tent, two humans appeared and rushed towards them.  


Rytlock took in their gaunt faces with a glance. They were archers, their bows clasped in grubby hands. They raised their weapons with arrows nocked. Rytlock’s paw went to his waist, but he grasped at the air.  


“Dammit,” he hissed, “my sword.”  


Shadowscorch extended his arm and took a breath. In a second, a swathe of flame blossomed from his fist and careered towards the attackers. Their eyes widened, and Rytlock heard a sharp intake of breath.

The flame hit the archer's face and sent her reeling.  


Shadowscorch bared his teeth and turned to the other attacker. Rytlock slammed his fist down over Shadowscorch's forearm, knocking his next gout of flame off target. It splattered against the dirt. The archer stood frozen, his eyes wide.  


Shadowscorch growled, elbowing Rytlock's arm away. _"What do you think you are doing?"_ he snarled, his ears pushed back against his skull.  


Rytlock clenched his hand into a fist and leapt towards the archer. The human reacted quickly, raising his bow and nocking an arrow, but Rytlock was faster. The archer didn't even draw the bowstring before Rytlock was upon him. He struck the archer in the jaw and sent him sprawling.  


The man's hands hit the dirt and he scrambled and kicked his legs.  


"Round them up," Rytlock said, "gotta be better than wiping them out?"  


Shadowscorch missed the uncertainty in Rytlock's voice. He was focused on the fight behind them. "Just grab him and let's go!"  


Rytlock reached out to snag the archer. His fingers brushed the man's arm, but the human was already rising to his feet. Rytlock grit his teeth, and raised his fists.  


The archer dropped his bow; the wood bounced as it his the ground. Rytlock ducked to avoid his hastily thrown punch, and snagged his fist in a paw. Rytlock squeezed, and saw the man's teeth flash in a grimace of pain. Rytlock felt bones crunch and rasp over each other. The man twisted his arm and yelped. He had dropped onto one knee, letting his weight pull his arm in an attempt to yank his fist from Rytlock's grasp. Rytlock drove his fist against the crown of the human's head, hoping to stun him. The archer reeled.  


Shadowscorch stepped up behind the man and clamped his hands either side of his head. His thick claws bit into the man's cheeks, and the human's eyes glistened in pain. The archer was breathing in short, sharp hitches. With his free hand he tried batting at Shadowscorch's arms.  


Rytlock let go of the archer's hand, and backed up a few steps. Shadowscorch fixed Rytlock in a cold, flat gaze. His jaw twitched and his nostrils flared with each breath. The spaces between his fingers began to glow, and the archer's skin started to crackle.  


A strange gargling noise escaped the man's mouth. His eyes widened into white-rimmed orbs and his mouth stretched wide. Rytlock began to smell the bitter tang of acrid, burning hair. He recoiled, clasping his paw over his nose.  


Bright orange cracks appeared in the man's face. Shadowscorch pressed harder, and the man's skull started to crack and fissure like a molten geode. The Charr stood with fire licking at his palms for a few seconds before he let the archer's body fall to the dirt.  


"Just kill them," Shadowscorch hissed.  


Rytlock retched, his stomach lurching. "This isn't helping," he managed to croak.  


"We have to move," Shadowscorch replied curtly. "Let's _go_."


	5. Scout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rytlock finds shelter with an Ash Legion scout. Injured, and exhausted, the scout reveals something to Rytlock that causes him to doubt the integrity of the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far. I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to update... I'm still trying to hit my stride with this one.

Shadowscorch lead Rytlock across the camp. They ducked into a tent. Shadowscorch stood by the entrance. He pulled his shoulders up high and twitched his ears.

"I can't sit here with you," he growled. "Keep your head down and wait for this to be over."

Rytlock let his knees give way and sank onto a low, narrow bench. He hung his head and breathed deep. The tent smelled of damp canvas. A sharper, more pungent smell of tincture and salve overlaid the smell of the other Charr.

Shadowscorch flicked his tail and cracked his knuckles. "Keep each other company, but stay quiet," he warned, "please stay inside." He shouldered his way out of the tent, his palms beginning to glow.

Rytlock turned his head and watched as the other Charr shifted on their bed. The wax from a cluster of stubby candles dripped and pooled in the corner. Rytlock could see the Charr was heavily bandaged; their chest was wrapped with mottled gauze. Rytlock grumbled, and pushed the heels of his paws over his eyes.  


“What’s happening out there?”  


Rytlock’s ears twitched. The Charr’s voice was light, and soft.  


“Humans in the camp,” Rytlock replied.  


The Charr managed to push himself up onto his elbows. He sat with his chin against his chest. His eyes shifted over Rytlock’s face.  


“What camp?” they asked.  


“I… don’t know. Iron legion.”  


Rytlock spied a jug across the room. He shuffled along the bench.  


“Please don’t,” the Charr said.  


Rytlock frowned. “My head is still spinning.”  


“It’s soured.”  


Rytlock sucked air through his teeth. “What happened to you?” Rytlock closed his eyes. The sounds of the fight were dim; here and there he could make out the raised voices of Charr. There was no longer the sound of gunfire.  


“I escaped.”  


Rytlock put his face in his paws.  


“Were you attacked?” the Charr asked.  


Rytlock shrugged. “I can’t remember.”  


“I think I did something wrong,” the Charr muttered. “They keep me here, and I don’t get to see anyone.”  
Rytlock listened.  


“I’m just a scout, but sometimes I run messages.” He paused, his breathing becoming louder. “It hurts,” he hissed.  


Rytlock blew air through his nose.  


“Don’t over stretch yourself,” he murmured.  


“Those other Charr,” the scout began, “They’re not the Flame Legion I was expecting.”  


Rytlock shook his head, “I think this is an artillery company,” he said.  


The scout clasped a paw over his eyes. “I really need to speak to their centurion,” he said.  


Rytlock narrowed his eyes.  


“Maybe I can help?” he ventured.  


The scout grimaced. “No, I don’t want to risk… I need to make sure…”  


The scout’s breathing hitched, and he growled. Rytlock pushed himself to his feet and went to his side.  


“Slow down, cub,” he said, laying a paw on the Charr’s shoulder. Close up, Rytlock could smell the sour scent that hung over the Charr. “You’re really… really sick.”  


“Doomtooth… parting gift…” The Charr gasped between each word.

Rytlock frowned.

“These Charr here,” the scout continued. “Do they work with the Flame Legion?”

Rytlock nodded.

The scout visibly relaxed, his shoulders loosening and his chest depressing as he let out a long sigh.

Rytlock strained his ears. Now the camp was quiet.

“How long have you been here?” Rytlock asked.

“Two days.”

“And Shadowscorch hasn’t spoken to you yet?”

The scout turned his head away from Rytlock. “If that’s what you meant by ‘working with the Flame Legion,’” he said wryly, “then there’s no hope for me.”

Rytlock frowned. “What do you mean?”

The scout coughed. Rytlock heard the thick, gloopy sound of his chest contracting with each expelled breath.

“There’s Flame Legion, and then there’s… The Flame Legion.”

Rytlock narrowed his eyes. “What’s the difference?”

The scout ran his tongue over his lips. “One of them is going to be anxious to hear my report.”

Rytlock sat on the edge of the bed, and studied the younger Charr carefully. His eyes were rimmed with sleep, but they still had a spark to them that betrayed his strength.

“What is happening at the wall?” Rytlock asked.

“You’re probably a sympathetic one, aren’t you?”

Rytlock rolled a shoulder.

“Do you buy into Doomtooth’s message?”

Rytlock flicked and ear. “Never met the guy.”

The scout laughed, his smile turning into a hacking cough. He lurched up, placing a paw on Rytlock’s forearm as he heaved.

“Steady,” Rytlock eased him upright and propped him up on the pillow. “What do you mean… ‘message’?”

The scout stared into Rytlock’s eyes. “His warband was once part of a company sent by Tribunes to head the assault. Their mission was to push ahead of the companies coming in from the north with the main Charr forces.”

Rytlock nodded.

“But they splintered after the first assault and no one knew what happened.” The scout pushed on: “Soon there came reports that Doomtooth’s warband was still operational. A skirmishing party bent on attacking Ascalon through subterfuge and aggressive raiding parties. The Flame Legion began sending messages to the front, ordering them to return and regroup.”

Rytlock’s mane bushed up. “I’m guessing they ignored them.”

The scout nodded. “Soon, the forward few companies lost communication with the Legion, and started going it alone. It’s causing the Tribunes a lot of trouble,” the scout dragged the back of his paw over his mouth. “Doomtooth keeps going. He thinks he’s leading the true assault on Ascalon- lead by the Charr _for_ the Charr.”

Rytlock hummed in his throat. “Doesn’t the… Flame Legion… have the Charr at the centre of their plans, too?”

The scout grinned. “Yes!” he said, “I knew I could trust you. So many Charr this far south… well, I just couldn’t be sure…”

Rytlock smiled. He patted the Scout on the shoulder. “So Doomtooth…?”

The scout continued: “He’s talking about leading a direct assault against the Prince.”

Rytlock drew a breath. “Why’s that so bad?” he asked, feeling his fur prickle.

The scout screwed his face into a worried grimace. “It’s forcing the Companies from the north to make a decision,” he confided. “And I need to get to them as soon as possible so they can make the right one.”

“What might that be?”

“They need to take Doomtooth out before Rurik becomes aware of their plan.”

Rytlock’s lips parted. He let his eyes unfocus and slide from the scouts face to stare at the floor.

“That’s even a thing?” he mused.

“It’s a real threat,” the scout assured him. “Moving the units from the north- the soldiers are weary, tired, not battle-ready. If Ascalon sends a coordinated attack that they aren’t prepared for…” The scout's voice trailed off. He stared at Rytlock with wide eyes.

“What?” Rytlock pressed.

“All that effort of bargaining with the gods will have been wasted, and Ascalon will not be ours for another lifetime.”

The scout started to cough again. He brought his paws up to his face and gasped and spluttered. Rytlock flinched, and stood to leave.

“Listen,” the scout said. “Please don’t tell anyone what I’ve said…” his voice changed to a higher pitch. “These Charr… just… be careful.”

Rytlock nodded. The scout sunk back onto his pillow and closed his eyes.

Rytlock waited until he could hear the deeper breaths of sleep. Then he pushed open the exit and stepped out into the camp.


	6. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack is over. Shadowscorch is anxious for Tinderspire to speak with Rytlock, but Tinderspire's attention is on other things.

Shadowscorch tipped his head towards the gutted treeline. Thick trunks stood blackened and cracking. The branches of the trees were stubbled and truncated and ashen. In the gloom, hot red sparks still glittered against the trees and ground.

“Bit excessive,” he mused.  


Tinderspire let out a short laugh. “Expertly calibrated,” he purred, slapping his paw against his rifle. The barrel was cooling, and Tinderspire angled the searing metal away from his body. His fur still bristled, standing in a fan between his shoulder blades.  


From across the camp, Steelclaw waved. He hefted a shattered branch onto a fire. It sent speckles of flame up into the dark. Steelclaw held up his paw with three fingers extended.  


“That’s all of us, then,” Shadowscorch murmured. He beckoned to Steelclaw.  


Steelclaw slouched over to them and stood with his feet apart and his head lowered. He pulled a dagger from his belt. As he wiped the blade, blood spread and glazed the metal and soaked into the dirty rag. “What’s next?” Steelclaw asked. When he spoke, he lisped.  


Tinderspire flicked his ears. “I thought this was a good spot to settle in,” he mused. Shadowscorch sighed.  


“It was,” he agreed, pulling his lips into a thin line.  


Tinderspire shifted his rifle onto his shoulder.  


“Get me a list of everyone still standing.”  


Steelclaw narrowed his eyes. “No Charr casualties,” he retorted. “These weren’t soldiers,” he added in a wry voice. “They might have had weapons but…” He turned his head to scan the camp. A cluster of bodies lay face down in the dust. A couple of Charr levered a still-smoking Ascalonian onto a cart, and wheeled it off towards the edge of camp.  


Tinderspire spat. “We’ll have to pack up and move out,” he growled.  


Shadowscorch scratched behind an ear. “We lost a couple of tents to those flaming arrows,” he said, “and about twelve of our gunners are down with burns.”  


Tinderspire made a noise in his throat. “Get them tended. We’ll begin dismantling the camp at dawn.”  


Steelclaw nodded once, and sloped off.  


Shadowscorch tapped Tinderspire on the elbow and leant in close.  


“That Blood Legion soldier,” he began, “which direction did he come in from?”  


Tinderspire shrugged. “Walked right through the camp, no idea.”  


Shadowscorch twitched his nose. “Those humans shouldn’t have stumbled upon our camp on their own.”  


Tinderspire shook his head and laughed. “Right,” he began, “and a Charr would lead them to us?”  


Shadowscorch pressed his ears against his skull. “Not deliberately,” he hissed.  


Tinderspire grinned. “Ok, ok. Listen. Benefit of the doubt, ok? Where is he again?”  


“Ash Legion tent,” Shadowscorch replied tersely.  


“Good, I’ll get his story from him.”  


Shadowscorch blew air through his nose.  


“He can be put to work, though,” Tinderspire said with a frown. “Get dissembling that cannon… thing.”  


Shadowscorch’s tail swung from side to side. “And then what?”  


“I want to poke about a bit and see if your suspicions have even a hint of truth to them,” Tinderspire growled. “So I’m off to find a live one.”  


Shadowscorch shook his head and sighed. The two legionnaires strolled together through the camp. The sounds of Charr shifting bodies mingled with the popping and shifting of the fires. Barely anyone spoke.


	7. Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rytlock helps in the aftermath of the attack, and finds something hidden in the wreckage of the camp.

Rytlock picked his way through the camp until he reached the inner circle of tents. Steelclaw appeared ahead of him, slinking between hurrying Charr. He met Rytlock’s gaze and lifted his chin in greeting.

“Out and about?” he said.

Rytlock shrugged. “I was getting bored,” he said. He watched Steelclaw’s face carefully. The smaller Charr scanned Rytlock’s face for a few seconds.

“Well, if you’re sure you can stand, we need help moving the injured.”

Rytlock nodded.

“Bring them to the centre, Ashmane will see to them. Come find me when you’re done,” he added.

A thick-maned Charr slunk up to Steelclaw and murmured something. Rytlock strained his ears, but his senses still felt numb. He felt his tongue, stuck to the roof of his mouth, prickle with thirst. Steelclaw flicked his ears and beckoned to Rytlock.

“On second thought,” he said, “You’re better suited with the diggers on the north side.” Rytlock shifted his weight from foot to foot. “They need a lot of help clearing the bodies away before Centurion Scorchmaw returns.”

Rytlock cleared his throat, “The centurion is back?”

Steelclaw pushed his lips into a very thin line and spoke in clipped tones: “He’s on his way,” he replied, “and would probably prefer a camp to return to.”

Rytlock frowned. “Have you heard how the meeting went?”

Steelclaw’s eyes widened slightly. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with matters like that, soldier.”

Rytlock cautioned himself, and took a breath. “My apologies, Legionnaire,” he said. His voice was measured, and controlled.

Steelclaw appeared to accept Rytlock’s apology. He ran a paw over his eyes and sighed. “Get going, Brimstone,” he muttered.

Rytlock set his shoulders and began to walk.

As he passed the remaining tents, the camp became quieter and quieter. Soon he could make out several Charr gathered in lines, grasping shovels in their paws. Charr dragging carts pulled corpses towards a pile, and heaved them into a rotting mess of flesh and tangled limbs.

Rytlock was glad for the low light. His nose could discern the bright coppery smell of blood under the warm stench of ash and burned wood. Here and there as the air shifted, the sharp sting of burned hair wove amongst the scent of the Charr. But Rytlock couldn’t make out the details in the scene.

“New hands,” a Charr rasped, gesturing at Rytlock. “Grab a shovel, get digging.” His eyes flashed in the dark.

“Got any water?” Rytlock asked. A couple of Charr stopped digging and raised their heads. The hoarse Charr tutted.

“Over there,” he replied, pointing towards a shadowy pile on the floor.

Rytlock pulled out a water skin and drank deeply. The water tasted stale, but he welcomed the cool sensation as it flooded his stomach. He sloped back towards the group and readied himself to dig.

The hoarse Charr watched him closely.

“Don’t know who you are,” he growled, “but so long as you can keep up, I’ll tolerate you.”

Rytlock flicked his tail: “I can work,” he said.

The Charr to his left snickered. Rytlock frowned. He hoisted his shovel and jumped down into the grave. As he began to dig, his shoulder twinged. Rytlock ignored it, and soon his mind began to wander.

A few hours passed. The weak morning light began to clamber up over the diggers. The air was cool and still. Somewhere amongst the tattered treeline, a small bird chirped a few sullen notes.

Rytlock stretched his stiffened muscles. The last body lay at Rytlock’s feet on a bed of dirt, his pale face framed with rich reddened mud. Rytlock pressed his paw over his nose, blocked his nostrils and winced.

“I still think we should be burning them,” a Charr soldier said. He rolled his shoulders, took a long drink from the bottle at his belt, and brushed the back of his paw over his lips. He adjusted the grip on his shovel and curled his thick yellowy talons around the dirty wood.

“You’re looking better though,” the soldier said, eyeing Rytlock from the corner of his eye. He continued to shovel dirt over the Ascalonian corpse.

Rytlock wrinkled his nose, and leant his weight against his own shovel. The metal bit into the earth and the smell of rich dirt blossomed into the air. It was true, Rytlock mused. The thick humming in his head had dissipated. The throbbing in his temple was no doubt due to the acrid stench hanging over the camp rather than any vestigial effects of a mysterious portal. He shrugged, and concentrated on carving his shovel into the soft ground.

The Charr around him kept their mouths shut as they finished up. His companion hummed a few notes of an old marching tune. Rytlock thought back to the Ash Legion Scout. He considered returning to the tent to sit with him a while longer.

“Good job soldiers.” The familiar grating voice of their supervisor cut through Rytlock’s musings. He patted the earth with his shovel and stepped back. The supervisor stalked between the mounds of earth, swinging his tail from side to side.

“Go get cleaned up,” he rasped. “There’s food near the Legionnaire’s tents. Get it quick, before they take the rest of the tents down.”

Rytlock raised his brow at his companion. The soldier shrugged, and let his shovel fall to the floor with a thud. “Let’s get going then,” he said, clapping a paw onto Rytlock’s arm.

They walked as a group through the camp.

As they reached the centre, the smell of food brought warmth to Rytlock’s body. They joined a line and waited until they were served.

Rytlock cupped the bowl in his paws and wolfed down the food. In the back of his mind, he remembered the scout.

“I’ll be back,” he said. The soldier shrugged.

“See you later,” he said with a mouth full of soup.

Rytlock licked the bowl clean and slunk back into the queue. Avoiding eye contact, he shuffled forward until he was standing in front of the server.

“Again?” the server muttered, his mouth curling into a grin. “Well, I guess anything to fatten you up.”

Rytlock met his gaze. The Charr towered over him and watched him with round, kind eyes.

“It’s not for me,” he muttered.

The server smiled warmly. “You’re a sweet one,” he said, ladling thick chunks into Rytlock’s bowl. Rytlock held his bowl still with his arms locked in place. The very tip of his tail flicked from side to side.

“Thank you,” he said tersely.

He took a while to find the tent again. In the morning light, it looked deflated and forlorn, slumped in the shadow of the woodpiles and tucked out of direct sight.

Rytlock entered. The familiar scent of sickness filled his nose.

The Scout was gone. The blankets on the bed were ruffled and bunched, and the pillow stood leaning against the edge of the trestle bed. Rytlock stood and surveyed the room, the soup on his hand steaming slightly.

From somewhere close came the sound of shuffling, and something like a suppressed cough. Rytlock set the bowl on the bench and began to search. The tent took a few seconds, as small as it was, and Rytlock started to look outside.

Tucked away behind the woodpile, he found the scout. He lay face down with his paws either side of his head. In the light, his spindly limbs made him look even sicklier. Like a spectre, thought Rytlock. He felt uneasy.

There was a brownish red stain across one flank of the Scout's grey tunic. Rytlock sucked air through his teeth and sighed.

The coughing came again. This time, Rytlock could pinpoint its origin. He left the scout’s body and headed towards the trees.

He heard something move across the leaf-litter. He darted around a bush and almost fell over the injured man. He was dragging himself away from the camp as quickly as he could manage with what Rytlock assumed was a twisted ankle.

“Get back!” the man wailed, flailing his arms against Rytlock’s legs.

Rytlock pulled away, his eyes widening.

“Shhh, human,” he hissed. “They’ll hear you.”

The human paused and stared up at Rytlock. His eyes bulged, and his chest fluttered up and down with each frantic breath.

“What are you saying?” he blurted, raising an arm as if waiting for Rytlock to strike.

Rytlock knelt and cast around for anyone near. His mane bushed up, and his ears swivelled in all directions.

“What did you do?” he hissed, reaching towards the Ascalonian. The man pulled away, his mouth stretched into a grimace.

“Get off me!” he yelped.

Rytlock sat back on his haunches.

“What happened with that Charr?”

The man pulled his head back and spat. It missed Rytlock, but the Charr curled his lip in disgust.

“Filthy creature came at me!” he said in a wavering voice. “I had no choice!”

Rytlock narrowed his eyes. “That Charr was bedridden,” he said in a measured voice.

The human giggled. “No way,” he said, “he was lurking about between the tents. No doubt a coward like him was waiting for the chance to run away…” The man coughed again, sucking thick breaths into laboured lungs.

Rytlock reached out to steady the man’s shaking shoulders.

“Get OFF you beast!”

“Brimstone, is that you?” a familiar voice cut through the air, and the sound of footsteps came closer.

Rytlock’s mind raced. He darted forwards and grabbed the Ascalonian by the arm. He yelped, but Rytlock held firm and dragged him away from the camp. He moved around the hulking pile of wood…

… and came face to face with Tinderspire.


	8. Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rytlock finds something in the aftermath of the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha. I almost abandoned this. Well no, I wouldn't do that ;) I have just been raiding, every evening for the past.... two months? It's very fun, but means I haven't had much chance to write. I was happy to see season three start, and of course, Rytlock being his usual adorable self, but now it's back to writing this and hopefully *moving the plot along*. We've been stuck in the camp for far too long...

Tinderspire let his mouth fall open ever so slightly. 

“Brimstone…” he began. His nostrils flared, and his ears stood out straight from his temples. Shadowscorch darted forwards, knocking his arm against Tinderspire’s shoulder in his haste. 

“Great work, soldier,” he purred, “now _this_ is what’s gonna help us.”

Tinderspire snapped out of his reverie; he grit his jaw and set his face into an imposing frown. 

“Always bringing the surprises, Brimstone,” he growled. His eyes fixed on Rytlock and watched him intently. Rytlock felt the fur between his shoulders stand up. He felt a bubbling heat in his belly, and tried not to snap and snarl at the Legionnaire. Tinderspire’s display of aggression distracted Rytlock. As he stood and glared, Shadowscorch managed to grasp at the human and tug him away.

Rytlock raised a paw. “Wait!” he began. 

Tinderspire stopped him with a paw against his chest. “Not now,” he said, staring down his nose at the smaller Charr. “I need you to explain _this_.” He pointed at the Ash Legion Scout, laying prone on the floor at their feet. 

Rytlock watched as Shadowscorch pulled the human back towards the camp. The man kicked and struggled, and let his body go limp. His weight dragging against Shadowscorch’s arm did nothing. The Charr continued regardless. His eyes glinted with a strange determination, and Rytlock felt a pang between his ribs. 

Rytlock turned his attention to the Scout. “Legionnaire, I found him this way.”

Tinderpsire’s eyes flashed. “It’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?” he challenged, “for someone who should have been helping the camp?”

Rytlock twitched his tail. “We were… getting food,” he ventured. “I brought some here.”

Tinderspire’s shoulders dropped slightly. He licked his lips. “That’s… thoughtful,” he said, “but unecessary. He was being looked after.” 

Rytlock continued, “He seemed... out of sorts. Why wasn’t he being treated in the main camp?”

Tinderspire’s brow lifted. He seemed to consider answering. “He was especially sick,” TInderspire said curtly. He turned, and then froze. Rytlock saw his shoulders lift again, and his mane grow. “Did you speak, much?” he asked. 

There was something in his voice that made Rytlock curious. He stared at the Scout with his brow furrowed. 

“No, he was… delirious when I was with him.” Rytlock hung his head. Tinderspire turned his head slightly, and peered at Rytlock over one shoulder. 

“Alright then,” Tinderspire appeared to relax. “Come with me. I expect you might want to hear this.”

Tinderspire paused for a second to look over at the Scout, and tensed his jaw. “We’ll have to bury him later.”

Rytlock pressed his ears against his head. “I’ll move him now.”

Tinderspire shook his head. “Go ahead. But don’t take too long,” Tinderspire lifted his head and flicked his ears.

Tinderspire walked towards the camp, and Rytlock moved towards the Scout. 

He lifted the Scout's shoulder, and tipped them onto their back. He was very light, and his head lolled against the ground as he was moved. 

Rytlock worked quickly, stuffing his paws into the pockets of the Scout’s clothes. There was nothing, and Rytlock sighed. He tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. 

“Maybe…” he murmured, and knelt by the body’s side. He pulled the folds of the Scout’s robes through his paws, and felt carefully around the hem. Rytlock exhaled softly. 

Nestled in the hem of his tunic, the Scout had hidden something. The weight was just perceptible, but Rytlock’s careful fingers could trace the outline through the fabric. 

He snagged the thread at the seam with a claw, and pulled until the material split. 

Rytlock pulled a small scrap of paper and sat with it cupped in his paw. It was folded precisely, over and over, so it looked impossible to open without tearing. Rytlock tucked it away in his trousers. 

He lifted the Scout and moved him back to the tent. He laid him gently on the low bed, and folded his arms over his stomach. Rytlock stood a while, mulling Tinderspire's words over in his mind, before the sounds of the interrogation drew his attention.

The Charr had gathered in a rough circle around the Legionnaires. Shadowscorch pulled the human around, wrapping the man’s upper arm in his thick claws. “Gotcha,” he purred, pulling his lips back into a vicious smile. 

Rytlock joined the throng. “Who is he?” he asked. 

Someone flicked their eyes at Rytlock, and snuffed air through their nose. “We will soon find out.”

The shaman shook his captive, the man’s head snapping from side to side. He tried to keep his footing, but the Charr was taller, and held his arm so his shoulder was uncomfortably high. Rytlock saw the man wince as he raised his hands to grasp at Shadowscorch’s fur.

“So,” Shadowscorch began, “why did you come here?”

The man grit his teeth, and the muscles in his jaw sprung up against his skin. “I will burn you,” he hissed, driving his heels into the earth and snapping his body from side to side. His struggles seemed to amuse Shadowscorch. He curled his lip and looked over towards Tinderspire. Tinderspire shook his head and crossed his arms. 

“Oh no,” Shadowscorch replied. He dragged his words out and relished each syllable. “Come now, which of the little villages have you come from?”

The man glared. “Whichever one your band of curs has yet to destroy.”

“Curs?” Shadowscorch cooed, “How quaint. Your insults barely annoy me.” Tinderspire stepped forwards:

"Let's take him to the Centurion's table," he began, gesturing to Steelclaw in the crowd. Shadowscorch snuffed air through his nose and barked a short laugh. 

"Where's you sense of fun?" he teased, tossing the man across his body and holding him off the ground with both paws. He turned the man to face him and stared into his face. 

The man recoiled. “So what are your plans?” he asserted, trying to stare defiantly into the Shaman’s broad face. “Going to march against the wall… again?”

Shadowscorch laughed. 

“Each time you try, we will always find a way to drive you back with your tail between your legs.” The man jutted his chin forwards.

“Brave words for someone so close to losing his head,” Shadowscorch threatened, dropping the man to his feet. The human swayed, and Shadowscorch appeared to reach forwards to steady him. Instead, he flicked a claw across the man’s chin. The man stood shocked, with wide, bright eyes. A thin line of blood bloomed from the wound, and began to run down into his beard.

Tinderspire flicked his tail. "To the table," he responded, with a hard edge to his voice. "The rest of you-" he paused to glare at the congregation- "get back to work." 

the Charr around shifted on their feet. A murmur swept over them. Some turned to each other, shaking their heads. The human was trembling; he pressed his hand over his chin. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his fear: 

“If this is your army, then you will never reach Ascalon.”

“We have faith in our gods,” Shadowscorch retorted bluntly. He pursed his lips. “But no mind, our Centurion will extract... all we need to know from you..." 

The man contorted his face and tensed his jaw. Shadowscorch turned and stalked away. Tinderspire guided the human along behind him.

“I won’t tell you,” the muttered, his eyes darting over the Charr. “I won’t tell you. I won't-”

Rytlock started to follow them. They reached the largest tent and disappeared inside. A Charr by the entrance raised his chin as Rytlock approached. 

"You are?" he asked. Rytlock rolled a shoulder. 

"So Centurion Scorchmaw is back?" he enquired. The Charr narrowed his eyes. 

"Move along, soldier." 

Rytlock didn't waste time. He sloped off, making sure the guard saw him, and then ducked around the back of the tent.

The canvas was thick enough that Rytlock couldn't make out the figures moving inside. He hunched down and listened instead. 


	9. Scorchmaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captive is questioned by Scorchmaw, and the Legionnaires receive new orders.

Rytlock twitched an ear. The sounds of the human prisoner as he struggled against his captors carried through the canvas walls of the tent.

“Stop that,” Tinderspire muttered. There was the sound of something being dragged over the floor.

“Tie him down,” Shadowscorch suggested, “And please stop with that noise,” he added, “it’s unseemly.”

Someone chuckled. “Come, sit, all of you,” they said.

The tent filled with the low rumble of Charr in conversation.

“I hear you found some new recruits?” the new voice asked.

“Stragglers, more like,” Tinderspire grumbled. “Some half- wit Iron Legion ranger instead of a proper machinist-”

“-And this odd little Blood Legion soldier. He wandered in all on his own,” Shadowscorch interjected. He cleared his throat. “That one’s a funny one,” he began, “hardly remembers his own name, yet manages to find our camp.”

“And managed to drag a village in behind him…” Steelclaw muttered.

“That’s still not been confirmed,” Tinderspire said, a hard edge to his voice. "Let's leave the Centurion to come to his own conclusions."

“This Blood Legion soldier… what’s he good for?” Centurion Scorchmaw asked.

Tinderspire cleared his throat. “Not much, it seems. Pretty good at following orders.”

“Oh come now,” Shadowscorch said. He took a breath. “We… tend to find him wandering around a lot.”

Rytlock frowned, and wrinkled his nose.

“Can I meet him?” Scorchmaw asked.

Tinderspire said: “of course, I’ll get it arranged.”

“You keep an eye on him,” Scorchmaw added. “Blood Legion shouldn’t be part of these skirmishes. Unless something, or someone has tipped them off…” There was some murmuring in agreement.

Rytlock grit his teeth. He imagined Shadowscorch was smiling, and his lip curled.

“So, this is the prisoner?” Scorchmaw added.

Tinderspire replied: “We thought we’d keep him close until you were ready for him.”

“And he’s the only one left?”

Tinderspire made a noise in his throat. “He’s calmed down a little.”

“Good,” The Charr said. “If he knows anything about Rurik’s patrols, I need to know.”

“As you wish.”

“Centurion,” Shadowscorch interjected, “we’re not sure what use he’ll be on… that front.”

Centurion Scorchmaw shifted in his seat, Rytlock heard the wood creak and shift under his weight.

“We’re close to the wall, there’s always a chance. It’s surprising what people can pick up.”

Steelclaw replied: “This attack didn’t seem well planned.”

“I’ve heard.” Scorchmaw might have moved closer to the man. Sounds of his muffled protests intensified. “Why did you come here?”

There was a pause. 

“One of the ch-children-” the man started to speak, “came running through the village. Said she’d seen a Charr in the woods.” Rytlock tensed; all the fur on his shoulders started to bristle. 

Shadowscorch made a noise in this throat. “As I expected,” he said said triumphantly. “It’s him!”

Tinderspire growled. “Just listen,” he chided.

“Well, w-we of course had to make… sure.”

Scorchmaw pressed on. “This Charr,” he said, his voice low, “did you see them?”

“No.”

Rytlock’s nose twitched.

“How did you convince the rest of your neighbours to go after it, then?”

“We’ve had run-ins with your kind before,” something fierce had crept into the captive’s voice. “We don’t take chances any more.”

Scorchmaw hummed. “So some sighting of some Charr was enough to get the entire village to take up arms? Doesn’t sound right, does it?”

Tinderspire and Steelclaw made sounds of agreement. Shadowscorch sighed. “Can you describe this Charr?” he asked.

The captive replied in a low voice: “She said he was big… and had wicked teeth.. And-”

Tinderspire slapped his paw against his knee. “There, hardly damning evidence against one of our own.”

“He’s not ‘our own’,” Steelclaw hissed. “He’s shady, and I want to be sure we can trust him.”

Scorchmaw cleared his throat and the other Charr fell quiet.

“How did you find our camp?”

The man cleared his throat. He seemed to struggle to speak. “We heard… rumours?” he said hesitantly.

“From where?”

“Sometimes people pass through the village,” the man said. “Sometimes people tell us where to steer clear from. We all know there are Charr lurking in the woods near the wall. Bands and bands of Charr raiding and pillaging and-”

“Alright, alright,” Tinderspire cut in.

“We just started walking until we saw some tracks, and then we followed them here.” His voice softened, “Please, let me go now. Please, can I go home?”

There was some murmuring. “Take him away, put him somewhere out of the way until we’re ready to move,” Scorchmaw said. Rytlock sighed.

Steelclaw must have started to untie the man from his chair, as the human started pleading for release.

“Enough,” Steelclaw hissed. “I have no sympathy for you.”

The Charr lead the man from the tent.

Tinderspire spoke up: “The village must be within a few hours walking distance,” he said. “The attackers looked like they hadn’t been on the road long. We’ll reach the village and clear it within a day.”

Rytlock eased his weight onto one knee.

Shadowscorch interjected: “It could make for a pleasant base to regroup before the next assault.”

There was the sound of furniture shifting, and something heavy knocking against wood.

Shadowscorch continued. His voice was low, and Rytlock had to concentrate to hear. “Fresh water, shelter, best of all, it would be easy to blend in…”

Scorchmaw said: “I want our efforts focused on advancing the artillery to the wall.”

Tinderspire replied: “We are still waiting for the sixth unit to bring extra gunners. They’re three days late.”

“I’m aware,” Scorchmaw said. The tent fell silent. Rytlock frowned. “The heart of the plan is the same,” he continued. “But your role needs adjusting. We need the artillery forces closer to the wall as soon as possible, regardless of previous orders. We have to support the soldiers currently stationed there- the main assault will follow from you.”

Tinderspire made a growling noise, and said: “Of course, Centurion. And what of the rebellion?” he asked.

Scorchmaw cleared his throat. “As far as the main force is concerned,” he said, “we’ve paved the way for the cauldron, and they can advance as they see fit.”

Shadowscorch snickered. Rytlock felt the fur on his neck prickle. “So the ‘meeting’ went well?”

Scorchmaw replied, “Painless.”

Shadowscorch clapped his paws together and barked a short laugh. “Everything is coming together.”

Chairs scraped against the floor, and the Charr rose to their feet.

“As soon as the soldiers are ready to go, come find me,” Scorchmaw said. “The canvas crackled as it was pushed back; Tinderspire held the door open and waited for everyone to exit. Rytlock watched them, his head obscured in shadow.


End file.
